


Both sides now

by Builder



Series: Canon ships and all that jazz [10]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, BAMF Laura Barton, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Domestic, Dysfunctional Relationships, F/M, Fever, Flu, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-27 05:54:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16212806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: Clint stops at the red light at the bottom of the off ramp and digs his phone out of his pocket. Laura’s last message is still on his lock screen. He’d read it, but never opened it. So maybe he’s just as guilty. But it doesn’t take much effort to read and comprehend “K.”The light turns green, and Clint drops his phone in his lap. He repeats the word over in his head, trying on different inflections and emotions. It’s not even a word. Just a letter. Is it any better with disappointment? Resignation? Sadness?It has to be one of those. Clint doesn’t know for sure, but he knows his wife well enough to tell an acknowledgement from something else. If she had on a lace bra and expensive perfume, she’d have added a smiley face. If she was digging in the cupboard for chicken noodle soup, she’d have added a question mark.But just a period? That’s "I have to be up in under six hours to get the kids to school. And you’re late. Again."





	Both sides now

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Tumblr @Builder051
> 
> Inspired by Joni Mitchell's song Both Sides Now. I greatly prefer the instrumental version, but the lyrics fit well with the theme.

Bows and flows of angel hair and ice cream castles in the air  
And feather canyons everywhere, I've looked at clouds that way  
But now they only block the sun, they rain and snow on everyone  
So many things I would have done, but clouds got in my way

 --Joni Mitchell, Both Sides Now

_____

 

It takes Clint an extra 20 minutes to detour to CVS and pick up cold medicine. He walks down the aisle in front of the pharmacy and grabs every box and bottle that looks enticing, stacking them between his forearm and his chest like a misplaced Jenga tower. It wobbles dangerously when he bends his knees. Who thought it was a good idea to put the lotion tissues on the bottom shelf?

 

He admits it’s worth it to pay extra for premium Kleenex and maybe save his already-raw nose a bit of torture. He should save himself the torture of trying to balance his load, too, but using a shopping basket is a different kind of defeat. One of the packages of pills falls to the ground as he straightens up, but Clint’s head is spinning. He doesn’t feel like figuring out what to set down in order to retrieve it. He probably doesn’t need Benadryl anyway.

 

He leaves it in the middle of the aisle and dumps his purchases on the checkout counter, then wipes his dripping nose on his sleeve as he reaches for his wallet.

 

“Can I help you find anything else today, sir?” the cashier says in a monotone.

 

Clint’s fever has reduced his brain to the speed of an outdated laptop running a security scan. He blinks at the wall of alcohol and tobacco products behind the register. He wouldn’t mind a bottle of Crown, something to put him to sleep that doesn’t taste like artificial cherries.

 

But it’s one in the morning and he’s still grimy from the mission and dressed in the old sweats he throws on when he doesn’t bother to shower before hitting the highway for the commute back home. And he’s probably already buying two or three things that contain codeine. No need to arouse suspicion.

 

“That’ll be $35.15, man.” The kid’s high as fuck, and Clint probably could’ve gotten away with half the liquor cabinet and not so much as an ID check. But he’s missed his opportunity. His mind finds a new state of awareness, realizing time is dragging and hating it, but still missing power to change course. So he just hands over his credit card and tries not to gag on his own snot.

 

Clint slides into the car, trying to get comfortable in his seat. He thinks about drugging up then and there, but he still has a ways to drive. He doesn’t trust himself to read the fine print and figure out what causes drowsiness and what doesn’t. And he neglected to buy anything to drink. His throat’s too swollen to dry-swallow pills, and his taste buds too sensitive for liquid medication without a chaser. Maybe he should’ve bought the Crown after all.

 

It isn’t till five minutes later when he’s back on the highway that the thought really sinks in, and Clint feels stupid again. His body aches something fierce, and the seat bites into his spine. He just wants to lie down. Maybe shower first. But he’s not sure he feels up to it, and Laura will probably have given up on him and gone to sleep.

 

He glances at the clock. It’s almost half an hour after he said he’d be home. She drinks wine and watches sitcoms for a couple hours after the kids are in bed. When Clint’s home, they do it together, working their way through _Seinfeld_ and _Cheers_ and _Friends_ , then going back to re-watch their favorites. Sometimes Laura giggles at the wrong time, engrossed in text conversations with Nat. Sometimes Clint plays Nintendo. Lately the iPad set up on the bed between them has been running through the queue automatically, neither of them looking up when the next episode starts.

 

Laura texts Nat when Clint’s not home, too. She used to text Clint, but now he only gets responses. She doesn’t reach out first anymore. Clint only gets his wife’s jokes and goofy stories when he catches a grinning Nat checking her phone under the table in the boardroom and asks what’s so funny.

 

Clint stops at the red light at the bottom of the off ramp and digs his phone out of his pocket. Laura’s last message is still on his lock screen. He’d read it, but never opened it. So maybe he’s just as guilty. But it doesn’t take much effort to read and comprehend “ _K_.”

 

The light turns green, and Clint drops his phone in his lap. He repeats the word over in his head, trying on different inflections and emotions. It’s not even a word. Just a letter. Is it any better with disappointment? Resignation? Sadness?

 

It has to be one of those. Clint doesn’t know for sure, but he knows his wife well enough to tell an acknowledgement from something else. If she had on a lace bra and expensive perfume, she’d have added a smiley face. If she was digging in the cupboard for chicken noodle soup, she’d have added a question mark.

 

But just a period? That’s _I have to be up in under six hours to get the kids to school. And you’re late. Again._

 

Clint’s stomach turns with guilt. Pinpricks of sweat break out over his forehead, and all emotions are placed on hold for more physical feelings. He’s a mile from the house and abjectly against pulling over. But it’s already clear he’s not winning anything tonight.

 

He makes it halfway up the bumpy driveway before the gag hanging in his throat becomes more than just an urge. Clint throws the car in park and opens his door, hanging over the gravel to spit up mucous that tastes like bile.

 

It’s just nauseous sputtering, the kind that comes from problems with his head and throat, not with his stomach. It’s a useful excuse when, say, the kids still end up at school despite the mess in the backseat of the car. But for Clint, it’s another failure. He can’t even throw up properly. There’s no sense of relief when he’s finished.

 

He tears open the box of tissues to wipe his mouth and blow his nose, then he collects the loot from the drug store and trudges up toward the house. It’s a small bright point that he didn’t bring up much; Clint doubt’s he’d be able to see a puddle of vomit on the uneven ground in the dark.

 

The front door is unlocked, which means Laura hasn’t turned in yet after all. Clint wants to sing her praises. He doesn’t realize how much of a hassle it is to fumble keys with cold, shaky fingers until he suddenly doesn’t have to do it. Maybe he does have enough energy left in his drained batteries to shower before he passes out.

 

Clint toes off his shoes and kicks them roughly in line with the row of boots and sneakers beneath the coat hooks. He shuffles into the kitchen and grabs the first water bottle he sees in the door of the fridge, not caring that it’s pink and covered in butterflies. Water’s water. They have a dishwasher to kill the germs before he gives it back to Lila. Clint takes a sip as he heads down the hall.

 

The lamp is on in the master bedroom. A pale yellow glow feeds out into the hallway. They don’t keep the light on when they watch TV, but the fact doesn’t exactly compute.

 

Laura sits in bed, glasses perched on her nose, stitching a patch onto the knee of Cooper’s jeans. Clint drops the plastic CVS bag on top of the comforter, and Laura looks up at him.

 

“Hey,” she says. She makes two more neat stitches, then ties off her thread and snips it. She folds the jeans and arranges her supplies neatly on top of them on the bedside table.

 

Clint watches her, stuck on the carefulness of her movement, the set of her mouth. She keeps the house running with a mix of focus and fun. She rolls with the punches. She only retreats into this mode of somber productivity when things aren’t right with her. Or more accurately, around her. Clint’s having difficulty separating tiredness from truth, but he can’t think of a single time Laura’s fucked up.

 

He needs to ask if she’s ok. Not that it makes much sense, because Clint’s beginning to feel like he could throw up again while his wife seems physically fine, just pissed. But unlike Laura, Clint makes bad choices a lot. Especially today. So he just says, “Hey,” back. Then he coughs. Pitifully.

 

“I was thinking we should talk.” Laura folds her hands in her lap. She’s an expert at ripping off Band-Aids, even when a fever makes the pain worse. “About you never being home anymore. But, you know.” She laughs humorlessly. “You’re never home anymore.”

 

“Yeah, hon,” Clint sighs. “I’m really sorry.” He doesn’t know what else he can say. Any promise to do better won’t hold water. His schedule won’t change unless he has a serious talk with his superiors. Which he can do. Maybe. Eventually. But it doesn’t solve the problem of tonight.

 

Clint’s head throbs. He dumps the array of medications out over the foot of the bed and searches out the strongest, longest-lasting thing. Something good for headaches and stomachaches and snotty noses and being a bad husband.

 

He should’ve asked if Laura was ok, kept up the pattern of initiation-response. Maybe she would’ve lied and said she was fine, and he’d be that much closer to sleeping it off.

 

Laura’s not ok. She’s already made that clear. But Clint’s not ok either. He gets that she’s not wild about him right now. He wants more than acknowledgement, though. Not an argument, not exclamation points. Happiness is too far in the other direction. But perhaps a question mark? Is it too much to crave a little care?

 

Clint picks up the box of Tylenol PM and squints at the directions on the back. His throat feels tight, either preparing to dry heave or anticipating the ordeal of swallowing pills. He takes a small sip of water, then tries to insert his fingernail under the sharp flap on the top of the box. “Sorry,” he murmurs again. “Can we…talk about it later?”

 

“When, Clint?” Laura shakes her head. “I’m gonna take the kids to school tomorrow, and you’re gonna sleep in, then I’ll get back and have an hour to feed you and start your laundry before you have to go back and have a debrief or a board meeting or supervise training or whatever it is you do out there…”

 

“I’ll find time. I’ll get up with you.” But he won’t. Clint backtracks. “I’ll call in sick tomorrow.” That’s more like it.

 

“What if you get called for a mission?” Laura’s volume rises. She’s not shouting, but she wants to be sure Clint hears her. “What if you take a bullet while you’re saving the world, and you realize the last time you sat at the table with your kids was over two weeks ago?”

 

Clint lets out a slow breath. His vision shimmers around the edges. He blinks hard, but the apparition doesn’t fade. He clutches the water bottle and the box of Tylenol together as he slowly turns and sits on the edge of the mattress.

 

“Honey.” Clint looks down at the carpet, hoping a singular visual focus will keep disaster from happening. Or not happening. If he barfs, maybe Laura will turn her sympathy back on. He fights a hiccup. “Can we not do this right now? Please?”

 

“You’ve been putting this off. Maybe you don’t realize it, but you have.” The bed shifts as Laura stands up. “You can’t do that, Clint.”

 

“I know, babe. I hear you.” He can’t hold down the hiccup this time. Clint’s hands are full, so he presses his wrist over his mouth. A drip shivering at the end of his nose soaks into his sleeve. “I just…I can’t right now. I really can’t.”

 

There’s a beat of silence. Then Laura sighs, the sound impossibly drawn out. But maybe Clint’s just losing track of time again.

 

The ends of Laura’s hair twitch into Clint’s peripheral vision as she kneels in front of him. “Didn’t you get a flu shot?” she asks. There’s still irritation in her voice, but its intensity has lessened.

 

“Yeah.” Clint swallows hard. “I don’t know what this is.” He hiccups again.

 

“Please don’t throw up in here. We have kids for that.” Now a hint of a smile.

 

“No, I’m not…” Clint breathes down the sick feeling, willing his headache to go back to just a throb. He can handle that. “I already did. Well, kinda…”

 

“In the car?” Laura wrinkles her nose. “I don’t wanna know.”

 

“Hm.” Clint’s not eager to retell it anyway.

 

“Looks like you really bought out the pharmacy.” Laura takes the box of pills from Clint’s hand. “But I’m gonna have to dose it for you, aren’t I?”

 

“Yeah, I’m…” Clint lifts his head and fixes his glassy eyes on hers. “A hopeless mess. You know?”

 

Laura makes quick work of the blister pack and drops two tablets into Clint’s palm. “Yeah. You kind of are.” She leans in to kiss his forehead. “You’re really cooking, too.”

 

“I really don’t feel good,” Clint admits. “But…I’m sorry, babe.”

 

“We’ll talk,” Laura says. “When you’re patched up a little. You really planning on a sick day tomorrow?”

 

Clint nods. He tosses back the pills and chases them with a draught of water, triple-swallowing to make sure they go down.

 

“Good. You need it.”

 

“Yeah,” Clint says. “We both do,”

 

 

 


End file.
